Still in the Dark
by miss anony
Summary: Rentfic. Usual “Mark” ramblings, I guess. If it really is Mark talking… Do summaries have to make sense? Shouldn't have done this. Must think Benny. Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny...


A/N: I listened to "I Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot one to many times and whipped this out in like an hour. I know that song's supposed to be about moving forward, but, well…never mind. Download it for background music if you like.  
  
Disclaimer: Yeah, you know…  
  
  
  
Sometimes life doesn't turn out how you thought it would. Typical. Everyone knows it. Everyone says it. Even when attempting to be different you find that you're completely the same. What's the use in whining about something when no one wants to hear it because they've already heard the same speech before? They've given it themselves. Nonetheless you still find yourself doing it.  
  
So I was looking over some of my writing. It's amazing how when you write something it can seem so deep and poetic at the time and then the next week you find the crumpled up piece of paper and it seems so damn pathetic. What was I thinking? I'm so obsessed with creating something to share with the world when I can't even stand to look at it myself.  
  
Ever since I was little I wanted to be a director. But not just a director in the sense of capturing other people's visions in celluloid - the kind that imagined his own stories and put them up on the screen to share with anyone willing to listen. It was one of those childhood fantasies that most kids grow out of, the kind where you want to be a doctor or a policeman or whatever. You say those types of things because that's what you're programmed to do. You're a kid. It's cute. You don't know any better. You're trapped in that little bubble of your existence where your parents are always right and they love you and that's all that matters. And then you grow up and suddenly reality catches up to you and runs you over like a steamroller. Suddenly you find that you're not that little wishful kid anymore and you wonder where the years went. When did it all become so jaded? And suddenly you find that you're not smart enough to get into law school. You're not fast or tall enough to be a major sports hero. You're not good-looking enough to be the movie star. The list goes on and on of what you can't do and why and then you just settle. You push those childhood fantasies aside and find an easier path – one that's more in tune to how you can fit into the grand scheme of things - the drone in an anthill of billions. I mean, it can't be that bad if so many people put up with it day-by-day, right?  
  
So I didn't choose a dream that was completely implausible. I decided I wanted to make movies for a living. It wasn't like I had to be anything beyond what I was. I didn't have to be a genius or handsome or charming. I just had to have a tale to tell. Like most big name directors it was the same story for me: I grew up going to my small town theater and every week for a few dollars I could completely immerse myself into someone else's reality. Someone else's brainchild, someone else's love - up there on the big screen for all the world to see. That's what I wanted - a moment of brilliance followed by mass appreciation for all my efforts. A chance to make it all mean something.  
  
I would sit in the dark for hours completely in awe of whatever was put before me. You could not believe how a good piece of cinema could absolutely brighten my day. It was all about the dark theater. It was like my sanctuary. My escape route. I've always found it such a comfort to sit alone in the dark. And it wasn't just the movie itself that I would go for. Often on repeat visits I would find myself staring at other people who I had never seen before, curious if they're reactions would be the same as mine. I love it when an audience claps at the end right before the credits roll. Or the buzz of all the, 'what'd you think's and 'did you like it's at the end. Or the sound of the sniffles and the tissues crumpling after a main character dies. I was never one to cry at those scenes. Somehow I became very desensitized over the years. When I was little, I would cry at anything and bury my head into my mother's lap. But now, nothing. And it wasn't even like I was holding it back because I was a guy. I knew that I was supposed to feel something, but I didn't. Still don't. Nonetheless, the fact that something could be so capable of moving other people in such a way never failed to amuse me.  
  
I can never get over how people seldom sit through the credits. It takes a small village to make a movie and no one seems to care once it's over. And even if they do stay, who in the end gets all the recognition? The director? Well no, technically the actors usually do. Not that I mind that since I myself am much more comfortable at being behind-the-scenes. Finally having your work and labor up on the screen is the real glory of it for the director. But I still find it a little funny when the actors get blamed for a bomb when they didn't write it but get all the acclaim when it's a box office smash. They're part of it, it's true, but not everything. And then we put them up on a pedestal and model our lives off of them when all they're really good at is being the world's greatest liars…I shouldn't say that, it's not really fair. They're human too after all. But then they always talk about being amongst the "real people" and all I can think is, so what does that make you? Nevermind, I'm rambling again.  
  
You see? This is why I can never complete anything. At least not anything of quality as opposed to quantity. I start off with an idea and then I get lost and things stop making sense. Some kind of screenwriter I'd ever make. It's not like everything I write isn't a complete hack off something else anyway. Maybe seeing too many movies is more of a hindrance then a help.  
  
So where was I? Oh yes, why I wanted to be a director. Well, I've always been more of a visual person then a verbal one. I used to watch movies and television shows and script out my own characters and plots to add to the pre-existing stories. And then I'd close my eyes and run through the scenes in my head. Call it crazy. Call it a run away imagination. It was my own little escape whenever I wanted it. Guess I'm just a dreamer.  
  
So one year my dad bought me a camera for my birthday. It wasn't the newest piece of technology – it was a secondhand, beat-up Canon Scoopic 16mm camera – but it worked and it was mine. That was all that mattered. My dad seemed so proud about it too at the time. In retrospect though, I think he always felt that it was a hobby and something I would grow out of in the long run. And now he probably wishes he had never fueled my fantasy.  
  
I guess I was never the typical son. Most father's want that little boy that they can take to little league practice or watch the Super Bowl with. The usual father-son bonding. Mom had Cindy. She got the ballet classes, the shopping sprees, the slumber parties - all the typical mother-daughter girl stuff. But I never had much in common with my father. I was the geeky boy, small for my age, with my nose stuck in a comic book. And then it probably didn't help that he saw all the father-son stuff that he wanted in my uncles and cousins. So the two of us grew apart over the years. I know now that I must have been a disappointment. Still am.  
  
It's amazing how you think you're so aware of something at the time, but when you look back at it, you were so blind. I used to think that it was all his fault that he didn't make an effort to understand me. And all the while I never thought about how it must have felt to be him. Sometimes I feel like I know too much for my own good, but know too little all the same.  
  
So I started writing screenplays. At first, it was a creative outlet – a place for me to put down my thoughts and feelings with no intention of anyone else reading them. But then I messed up. I left one out and a friend got a hold of it and gave me the false idea that I could actually write, that I had talent. And me being the hopeless dreamer fell for it hook, line, and sinker. So instead of just writing and filming stuff out of fun, it turned into the notion that I could actually do it and make something of it. My little boy fantasy could be true.  
  
And now I'm here, back where I started. Stuck in my little dream world that I first started building brick-by-brick back as a child. I really haven't changed much, have I? Everyone else around me moves forward and tries to find their place in society while I desperately cling onto the past. And even though I feel that I should know better by now, there's still that little part of me that wants to say I'm wrong and that my day will come. I need to prove that all the years I've wasted where not in vain. Everybody has that dream of doing something worthwhile, but not everybody actually does it. And now I find that dream has made me become my own worst enemy.  
  
Where can you run to escape from yourself? 


End file.
